


No Bacon Wasted

by youreyestheyglow



Series: Firsts [2]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, less sexually suggestive, still pastel as fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-24 10:15:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2577899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youreyestheyglow/pseuds/youreyestheyglow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First Date</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Bacon Wasted

**Author's Note:**

> I know everyone thought Arcadia was gonna come next but that's gonna be another first so  
> also  
> apologies for taking 7 months to update this  
> at least there aren't any cliffhangers

Jean’s name popping up on your phone is a bit of a shock, to be honest.

“Jean? Why’re you calling? The showtimes for  _Arcadia_  aren’t out yet.”

You can hear him snort. He almost sounds like a horse when he does that.

“What, have you been keeping track?”

You refresh Chrome, and the screen tells you the same thing it’s been saying for a week:  _Arcadia_  still has no set dates at any theater outside of England. “No.”

He’s silent for a second before he says “Right,” and you can hear the laughter in his voice. “Anyway. I feel like a first date should involve some form of communication, which is a little bit difficult in a theater. And, as you so  _kindly_ pointed out, the showtimes aren’t actually up for Arcadia yet, and I don’t particularly feel like waiting six months to see you again. Have you ever heard of Grounds for Sculpture?”

He wants to see you again? Soon? And he wants to talk to you?

It’s not hard to call up his eyes, lids heavy and darkened with eyeliner, eyes glinting and focused on you.

“Marco?”

“It rings a bell, but I can’t put a place to the name.”

“Good. It wouldn’t be half as fun if you’d been there before.”

You frown. “Maybe I’ve been there before, and just forgot.”

He laughs, and even over the phone it makes you smile a little. “If you’d been there, you’d remember. What’re you doing on Saturday?”

“You, if everything goes well," you snark, but he inhales sharply.

“Right.” Wow, his voice got low. “I’ll meet you at Grounds for Sculpture at 1 on Saturday, then? Unless you’d like me to pick you up? There’s a restaurant there, I can make reservations for two o’clock.”

“I have a chauffeur.”

“You can’t – oh. Right.”

Your hand comes up to cover your empty right eye socket. The scarring around it is rough against your hand. “Right.”

“I could pick you up, you know, it wouldn’t be a big deal.”

“It’ll be horrible if the date doesn’t go well.”

“But if it does, I’m not leaving you until you want me to go.” His voice is rough, low in his throat.

Phone sex with him would be incredible.

You remember him licking gravy off of fries.

Sex with him would be incredible.

You glance down at your bare arm. It’s a scarred wreck, scar tissue tracing lines down from your shoulder to your wrist, and the right side of your torso isn’t much better.

Jean’s skin – or what you saw of it – was clear, flawless, unscarred.

“Marco?”

“Hmm? Oh. No, I can have my chauffeur drive me.”

“All right.”

When you hang up, you wonder if he meant to sound disappointed, or if he’s just bad at hiding it.

 

You arrive at Grounds for Sculpture at precisely one o’clock, your chauffeur declining the offer of the next few hours off. Sasha’s eyes linger on your right side, and you do your best to forget that the last time she accepted that offer, she arrived too late to do anything but drive you to the hospital.

“I’ll be napping. If you need anything, my phone is on.”

You nod and she slips back into the car.

“Marco!”

You turn to see a very color-coded Jean sauntering towards you in a blue dress shirt and purple vest. You suppose he’s going for a dressy look to match yours, but really, if the pastel colors of his top half didn’t ruin it, the soft purple pants and blue dress shoes would’ve done it in.

You’re suddenly glad you chose to forego the suit jacket today. “You look like you took an entire class on color theory just to put that outfit together.”

“And you look like you found out you were colorblind and got an entire wardrobe of black and white clothing so you wouldn’t have to worry about matching,” he responds cheerfully, moving to stand on your left side, where you can see him. He waves at the tinted windows of your car, and you’re willing to bet that Sasha’s already loading her gun. “Ready to go?” He holds out his arm to you.

You slip your arm through his. “Ready.”

You pat your right pocket as you stroll away, reassuring Sasha that you have your phone with you.

“You’re making your chauffeur sit here?” Jean asks curiously.

“She knows she can leave if she wants.”

“She’s  _choosing_  to sit here for several hours?”

You glance at him and find him watching you. “She’s ready and waiting to shoot you in the head if I say the word.”

He turns to look back at the car. “Oh. Well then.” He runs a hand over the back of his head, ruffling his hair so the blue mixes with the purple for a moment before he smoothes it out. “I don’t suppose there’s much I could do to get her to relax?”

“Not pulling out a knife would be a good start.”

“Right. No knives. Hell, I’ll go a step farther: no guns either. Or switchblades. Weapons of any sort.”

“That would be much appreciated.”

The first sculpture is made out of trash. It’s a giant robot, lying on the ground, insides open for all the world to see, and the more you look, the more you notice. There’s a vacuum head, innumerable pieces of PVC pipe, a shoe, a cup, things you couldn’t put a name to and things you barely recognize, and it all fits in so well, you’re surprised the thing doesn’t come to life and bounce up next to you.

Behind it stands an enormous sculpture based on Grant Wood’s “American Gothic,” a man and a woman standing arm-in-arm the way you and Jean are standing now with an expression on their faces like they’ve been up since three in the morning and are about to drive four hours to a funeral.

“They look happy,” Jean mutters.

“It’s “American Gothic,” not “American Night Club,”” you point out.

“Still. Who died, y’know?”

“Probably most of their families."

"Pessimist."

"Realist." 

He glances at you. "Let's go find something happier. May as well head towards the restaurant anyway, don't have much time til our reservation." 

"Sure."

He leads you past sculptures, twisting up into the sky, sun gleaming off metal and bleaching concrete. You can't help but grin at the hill you stop in front of, covered with red poppies, a sculpture of a woman and a boy completing the near-perfect replica of Monet's "Woman with a Parasol." "His son's name was Jean, wasn't it?" You ask, pointing at the boy. 

"Yeah. Yeah, that's me up there. Definitely me."

"You were a cute kid."

"Yeah, you can't really tell from the sculpture, but I was adorable as hell."

"I think it comes through quite well, actually."

He grins at you. "How kind of you to say so."

For a moment, you can't quite breathe. His grin is bright, sincere. There's no pity in his eyes. No fear. No regret. 

It's been a long time since someone looked at you like that.

You're used to it, now, the way the right side of your face moves a little more slowly when you smile, the way it tugs at the scar tissue around your eye, where you hadn't bothered getting skin grafts. All the same, you can't help but be aware of it right now, aware of the fact that you only bothered getting skin grafts on your cheek and neck. Your eye and forehead are easily covered by your eyepatch and hair, and you wear suits and gloves anyway. 

Would he grin at you this way if he saw the rest of your body? Scarred and mottled down to your waist? 

"We should probably keep going. Unless the restaurant is around the corner, we're gonna be late."

He nods. "Actually, it is around the corner, but I think you'll like what you see enough that you'll want to take a minute anyway."

You let him lead you around the bend and -

Oh.

"That's  _beautiful_." 

A manmade pond laps at the grass in front of you, stretching back to where it's spanned by a pale green bridge. Lily pads sit peacefully on the water, providing shade for the brightly colored fish swimming under the surface. 

Monet's bridge and water lilies sit in front of you, recreated down to the most minute detail. 

"That's  _incredible_."

"It's always been one of my favorites," Jean says peacefully. He's not looking at the bridge, though - he's looking at you. You can see him out of your peripheral vision. 

It's a little nerve-wracking. 

You're not quite sure what he wants from you. You've offered him nothing, you haven't even contacted him since that night a week ago at the restaurant. Your transaction was completed that night, ten minutes after you'd gotten home. You're fully aware of the fact that you're attractive, so long as your scars are covered, but the way he's looking at you isn't exactly what you'd call  _lustful_. And he's considerate in a way that isn't consistent with just wanting sex, either. He tugs you towards the center of the pathway when a stray branch reaches out into the path, and stays to your left side, and doesn't make a point of avoiding looking at your eyepatch, and doesn't stare at it. It's almost like - fuck it. You don't even know.

No point in questioning it now, though. You're looking forward to the food. 

You'll figure it out later. 

"Wait, we've got a few minutes before our reservation -" He tugs you away, and you note that he makes a point to pull you towards your left, so you can see where you're going. So considerate. 

You'd protest, but if he's pulling you away from Monet, it must be for something good.

You're not disappointed.

Nestled in a tiny corner off a side path sits  _Girl with a Pearl Earring,_  the sculpture painted so  _perfectly_  that you can't bring yourself to believe that anyone but Renoir himself painted her. You reach out carefully. Jean steps you a couple inches closer, and you realize you misjudged the distance. But it doesn't matter. 

She brings up memories, memories of your mom's copy of the painting, sitting in the living room in a cheap frame. You moved that painting three times, twice when your mom moved, and the third time when you moved it into your attic. "She's beautiful."

"She?"

"It."

He doesn't respond. 

You check your phone. "Time for our reservation?"

Jean nods. "Shall we?"

It's not until you're seated that you realize the restaurant is French.

Jean orders in French. 

"Je voudrais d'eau, s'il vous plait. Et la Croque Madame." 

Christ, you wish you could order in Italian. 

You settle for English, though, and the waiter doesn't blink an eye at "Water and the cobb salad, please." 

"I'll have to teach you French," Jean murmurs. 

"I'll have to teach you Italian."

"Is that a deal?" He grins, biting his bottom lip, and you have a  _very_  vivid flashback to his way of "sealing" the deal. 

"We'll have to wait and see," you hum. 

"Don't suppose there's anything I can do to help convince you?"

"Nope, sorry. I'll have to decide on my own."

The waiter returns with water, and Jean thanks him in French. You could probably manage a "merci" but you have the feeling it would come across a little strange, so you're stuck with English.

"I don't suppose we could play 20 questions this time?" Jean asks.

"No."

"Why not?"

"It's childish."

"So am I, but you don't seem to have a problem with me, as far as I know."

"As far as you know, huh?"

"As far as I know. This is your chance to clear that up, by the way, if it's a misconception."

He waits as you chew on your lip.

"I don't know what you want from me."

"What I want from you?" 

"Why are you here? What are you looking to get out of this?"

"Well, another date would be nice."

"No, Jean -" He looks confused. "What do you want? What's the point of another date? What purpose does this serve?"

You jump as the waiter leans in with your plate, all the toppings neatly arranged around the lettuce. Jean's croque madame appears out of the waiter's other hand, cheese melting over the side in puddles. 

"Thank you."

"Merci."

He disappears and you're left to stare at your salad and avoid Jean's eyes. "I am inquiring," you begin softly, "as to what you're looking for from me."

When you finally look up, Jean's eyebrows have practically receded into his hairline.

"You're gonna get wrinkles," you comment. 

His eyebrows drop back down. You snicker.

"I don't have a habit of dating people for their money, if that's what you're asking," he says. "And if I wanted something from you, I'd fuckin ask. Give me a little credit here."

You'd love to tell him that his reputation says otherwise, but he takes a breath and continues.

"I'm here because I'd like to get to know you. You're interesting, Marco. You've got a story.  _Something_ , I don't know. More than just - money. Maybe that's it. You don't rely on your money to build your personality. Also,  _you're gonna get wrinkles_? Really? Who looks their date in the eye and  _says_  that?"

He waits for you to smile before continuing. "Point is, you're interesting. Aside from all the fun stuff, like negotiations and money transfers and shit, I think I'd like to learn more about - you. The enigmatic Marco Bodt."

I snort. "Enigmatic. Who says  _that_?"

"Ah, you don't know about your reputation, huh?" He says with a grin, leaning forward. "A brick wall. Straightforward in terms of negotiations, predictable in terms of money, but past that - we've got a name and that's about it. I don't know  _anything_  about you. No one does. And I want to. I want to know  _everything_."

"So you're in it for the gossip material?"

He frowns at you. "Do you really think I'd tell people? I barely even  _talk_  to people. Too much work for not enough gain. And I'm smarter than most of them, anyway. I wouldn't give them something like your life story. I just -" He huffs in frustration. "Want to date you. Like a normal person who isn't worth billions of dollars would date another person who also isn't worth billions of dollars. I wanna peel you back, layer by layer, and see what's inside."

He's looking at you like you're a particularly tasty meal again. You're not a fan. "Like an onion?"

"See? Why is that your first thought? I wanna know. Are you a Shrek fan? Are onions your favorite food? Am I making you uncomfortable? What are your boundaries? Why? Is there any particular reason? I wanna know, Marco, I wanna  _know_." _  
_

"And once you know?"

He smiles. "It's not possible to know a person so well there's nothing left to learn. I'll never know everything."

"Am I worth that pointless effort? Sounds like something else that's too much work for not enough gain." 

"You don't give yourself enough credit.  _Everything_  about you is worth knowing. So if I never know all of it - who friggin cares? I'll know more than I would've if I'd never met you."

Truth? Lie? Any way for you to figure it out? Could you take him out if he became a threat? Spend lengthy periods of time with him if he's safe? 

He runs a hand through his hair. "This isn't a hostage negotiation, Marco. I want to know more about you. Do you wanna know more about me?"

He's all purple and blue today, and you can't help but wonder if there's any sense to the color combinations he chooses, if he cares what people think of him, if he dresses purposefully to elicit a reaction or simply because he can - "Yes."

He grins. "Then we can keep dating?"

"If that's what this is."

Jean huffs at you. "That's what this is."

"Then sure."

"Good enough for me," he says cheerfully, picking up his croque madame and shoving half of it into his mouth at once.

You mix your salad carefully. You're not actually sure how deep the damn bowl is and you can't tell how much salad stuff is at the bottom. 

Jean doesn't take another bite til you start eating. Waiting for you so you don't have to eat alone. 

You could get used to this. Could get used to him. 

He steals a piece of bacon out of your salad and winks at you as he munches on it. 

You'd throw a piece at him, but you don't have very good aim, for obvious reasons. 

After the third piece of bacon he takes, you give up and hunt down every piece of bacon in the salad and eat it in two bites.

He pouts at you and you laugh in his face. 

He doesn't seem to care. 

He picks up the tab - like you don't have the money to pay your half, but hey, he can pay if he wants - and you exit back onto the grounds. He escorts you around, talking animatedly about some of his favorite sculptures - all of his favorites are based on paintings. You agree, personally. The other sculptures are beautiful, thought-provoking, aesthetically pleasing, but there's just something incredible about seeing a painting perfectly replicated in 3D. It's - different. You get to walk around the figures, walk inside the painting, become a part of it. It's - breathtaking. 

He pulls you back before you come into view of the parking lot, though.

Sasha can't see you.

Your pulse picks up.

You slip your hand into your pocket, curling around your phone, ready to speed dial her if -

"Assuming your bodyguard doesn't like me very much, I don't suppose I'll be able to kiss you goodbye in front of her?" Jean says casually. 

Oh. 

Maybe you're a little paranoid. 

"No. No, I don't think she would."

He wraps a hand around the back of your neck and tugs you down to him, making up for the last inch or so himself, like he knows you're a little worried about overshooting the distance and smashing your face into his -

He's really good at this.

His tongue slides into your mouth slowly, you'd like to say tentatively, but no - it's more like he's giving you a second to get used to it, which is nice, and also,  _wow_. 

Your nose bumps against his cheek, and he apparently decides that that's enough and pulls back. 

"Now," he says, maybe a little breathlessly, "Let's return you safely to your bodyguard, shall we?"

"Yeah," you say, maybe a little breathlessly. "Let's."

He offers you his arm again, and you take it. 

You almost want to take him home with you. Or go home with him. You  _definitely_  want to learn more about precisely how well he kisses. 

But you don't ask and he doesn't bring it up either, so maybe not today.

Sasha's waiting for you, and she opens the door and gives Jean a look that could kill. Jean doesn't seem phased, though, and keeps his hand on your arm until you're in the car, much to Sasha's displeasure. 

"Looking forward to Arcadia," he says pleasantly. 

You can't help but grin at him. "I'll call you when the tickets go on sale."

He snorts. "I knew you were keeping track of it."

"'Course."

He shuts the door, but grins and waves as he walks away, a confident strut that carries his pastel self to a bright red Camaro. 

"Gonna watch his ass sway until he's out of sight, or can we go now?" Sasha asks.

You flush. "We can go."

She sniggers. "Will he be turning up in your bedroom any time soon? Should I put a panic button next to the bed?"

You give her an icy glare that she doesn't see, by virtue of being a good driver and keeping her eyes on the goddamn road, a trait you've always appreciated until now. "No, thank you."

"Will I be driving you to Arcadia? Or will he be driving you?"

"Undecided."

"Or maybe you'll just skip it altogether so -"

" _Sasha_."

She giggles but shuts up. Good enough for you. 

Even if she is maybe a little right. 


End file.
